


et regina corruit

by skai_heda



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, F/M, Gen, Modern Royalty, Politics, Violence, War, general! bellamy, queen! clarke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22275937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skai_heda/pseuds/skai_heda
Summary: She hates the person controlling her army, one of her head doctors is guilty of several instances of treason, and she has just lead her nation into the most destructive war in centuries.There's no question; the reign of Clarke Griffin will not be forgotten soon.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	et regina corruit

**Author's Note:**

> so i'm aware that i should be updating all of my other fics, but i just had to get this out, and i've been missing writing action

_You are a child._

The sound of the crown tumbling across the marble floor is frighteningly loud in her ears, almost bringing her out of the destructive haze of anger.

"How much longer until your tantrum ends?" Raven asks from the outside the door.

"I'm not having a tantrum," Clarke sighs. "I dropped something."

"Threw it, more like."

Clarke opens the door to face her Royal Advisor. "Is it time?"

Raven rolls her eyes. "Not technically, but Bellamy's throwing a fit."

"Of course he is."

Clarke glances down at the delicately shaped metal in her hands before placing it on her head. "I still don't know why this is necessary."

"Small compromises," Raven assures her, but it only makes Clarke's heart sink further. How many compromises has she made in the last two weeks alone?

Bellamy waits at the foot of the main stairs, cutting a striking yet familiar figure in his worn guard jacket, now adorned with stripes and stars and badges indicating his rank.

"You're cutting it too close," he snaps, clearly in a worse mood than usual.

"I have more pressing matters," Clarke replies sharply, employing just that slight tone of authority that pisses him off so much, especially since he knows that he cannot oppose it. But today it seems like he's having even more difficulty holding his tongue—she even catches him opening his mouth and closing it again. Behind him, Murphy stands with the iron cuffs around his wrists, flanked by Harper and Miller.

"Just ignore him, Clarke," Murphy says lightly. "He's just a grumpy old man."

"You will address her with respect—" Bellamy starts, but Clarke holds up a hand. Murphy's a snake, but she doesn't particularly have the energy to hate him. Bellamy, meanwhile, looks like he'd rather execute Murphy right here.

"Just remember that this is a convergence of diplomacy," Raven sighs. "And this isn't going to seem very diplomatic if you look like you want to kill someone, General Blake."

"Let's hope I don't actually have to," Bellamy mutters under his breath as he takes Clarke's arm with surprising gentleness and leads her into the conference room build almost entirely of glass and steel, the formal location for foreign matters to be settled in the Arkadian monarchy. Inside, there's a small assortment of guards, and King Roan Nix of Azgeda sits with his legs and arms crossed. Beside him, his advisor and head general, Echo Ashwen and Octavia Blake, respectively. Beside her, Bellamy's arm tenses. Whether it's from the presence of the enemy or his sister, Clarke's not entirely sure. 

Gently shrugging off her general's hand, Clarke approaches the table, staring directly at Roan.

"I assume there's a reason you brought me here, Wanheda," Roan sighs. "And it's certainly not because Uncle Jake asked, is it?"

Clarke grits her teeth at her cousin's casual mention of her title and her father in the same sentence. "My father is dead. But you already knew that, didn't you?" She doesn't give Roan a chance to answer—she has to stay on topic. "No, I brought you here to negotiate."

"Negotiate what? A _peace treaty?"_

He says it as if he's criticizing a weak joke, which is true—Clarke knows Roan doesn't think much of treaties.

"Polis is suffering from the murder of their queen," she says. Though her voice is steady, Clarke has the vague sense that she'll pass out. "They're yet to choose someone to rule, and I highly doubt that they will be able to soon. The Order of Pramheda is trying to reintroduce their cultish beliefs, which isn't contributing at all. This war that you and I are fighting isn't weakening either Arkadia or Azgeda—but it will destroy Polis. And you understand the importance of preserving that location, don't you, Roan?"

After a moment, he nods a little.

"This war is useless," Clarke says, sounding to her own ears a lot more confident than she actually feels. "This will only end with our resources running out and the destruction of the oldest nation since the last dawn of civilization following an extinction-level event."

"Well, I guess you're still hopelessly unaware of everything that's going on," Roan says lightly, playing with his plain ivory circlet. 

"I think you'll find that statement to be wrong," Raven interjects, crossing her arms. "Everything we have on the Polis situation is recent."

"How recent?" Echo asks.

"Information we just received about a minute before we walked in here," Bellamy states. "And continually coming in as we speak."

"But of course, you're waving off the most important part," Roan says almost gleefully, setting his circlet back on his head. "You dismiss it as, what was it? _Cultish beliefs."_

Clarke narrows her eyes. "Don't talk as if you actually believe that doomsday bullshit, Roan."

"Have you actually really done any solid research?" he asks, lacing his fingers together. "Or did you just think that you had no reason to look into it?"

"We could ask you the same thing," Raven counters. "Did _you_ do any research?"

At this, Roan's confident exterior seems to waver a little. "I'd be a fool to not trust the Order of Pramheda."

"You'd be a fool to believe anything they say," Clarke says, a little too sharply. Apparently noting the sudden change in her level of self-control, Bellamy steps forward. 

"I think it would be wise to consider the proposition," he murmurs. "Neither of us really want all these people to die in the end."

"It is a sweet thought," Roan sighs. "But we're not actually here to listen to whatever desperate plea you wanted to present to us."

It happens faster than Clarke can blink—Octavia pulls a gun out of her jacket and shoots all the guards with one wave of bullets. By the time all the bodies have hit the floor, Clarke has already yanked a gun out of Bellamy's belt and has it pointed at Roan's head, with both Echo's and Octavia's weapons trained on her. Bellamy has an extra gun on Echo, and Raven's is pointed on Octavia. It's a truly precarious arrangement—if one person pulls the trigger, all of them could be lying dead on the floor. Vaguely, Clarke wonders whether Harper and Miller are running towards the room right now, having heard the gunshots. It's not an ideal situation, of course, but it's an easy one to get out of, hopefully. It was a careless plan, but it makes her feel slightly uneasy—it's not like Roan's team to be this disorganized.

"What were you thinking?" Clarke says, pushing the barrel against the head, finger squeezing the trigger. "What was your plan here?"

"I want to end the war, too," he says. "But that'll only happen when I bring your body to Azgeda."

Clarke scowls. "You were always a dud, Roan, but even you would know that this isn't the solution. It won't appease anyone."

"It's the fastest solution," he snarls. "Those things that the Order of Pramheda tells us—it is upon us. It will destroy us more than any war can. If I choose to do what you're asking, it's just a waste of time. You're irritating need to establish peace and total order is the only way standing between us and survival. You will let it destroy us."

She slams the butt of the gun into his nose, making him yelp, before she turns it back against his head. "What is _it?_ What the hell are you talking about?"

There's a beeping noise that surrounds her, getting exponentially louder. She sees Echo and Octavia squeeze their triggers, and Clarke has the vague feeling that she needs to beat the shit out of whoever checked them for weapons.

"Praimfaya," Roan whispers.

"Now," Octavia murmurs to Echo, and together, the two of them fire their guns.

* * *

**four months earlier**

* * *

"He's your best option," Sinclair says beseechingly, putting a hand on Clarke's arm. "He's extremely gifted, very dedicated to his purpose—"

"He is an arrogant bastard," she snaps.

At last, Sinclair seems to be mildly frustrated. "You have to make some compromises, Clarke. It's your responsibility. I don't think you fully understand the pressure—"

"I do," she says. "My father is dead, and my mother has disappeared off the face of the earth, probably also dead. Wells Jaha was killed in the first riot, and Thelonious Jaha is a traitor to Arkadia. I think I understand perfectly well how much weight this situation carries."

"If that's true then you'll understand the need for Bellamy Blake as your lead general."

"He shot Wells's dad!"

"Whom you just referred to as a traitor. Don't tell me you don't hate him for everything he's done, Clarke," Sinclair says softly.

"Do you hate him?" Clarke asks suddenly.

"We both know that isn't important," Sinclair sighs. "And it isn't your job to be concerned about this right now, especially now that we have just formally declared war."

"An unnecessary war," she murmurs.

The hallways of the Royal Acropolis are dim, running on the emergency generator ever since the attack on the dam. The smooth, steel-and-glass hallways have lost their crisp, modern look—the strip of lights set into either side of the floor and ceiling had been a pleasant, bright white—now it's just a dull, eerie red. At the end of the hallway, she sees a figure, looking large and threatening in the dimness.

"That's him," Sinclair says unnecessarily. 

"Remind me how he managed to not get arrested again," Clarke murmurs. Her Advisor stays silent, and at last, the man turns.

"Your Highness," Bellamy Blake says in his familiar, drawling tones, tilting his chin down to face her. Clarke knows that he's aware that such formalities are long forgotten among the residents of the Acropolis, but she also knows that he has a special liking for irritating her as much as he can. 

"General," she mutters, testing it on her tongue. 

"We've got a few people trying to do damage control out by the dam region," he says, starting to walk down the hallway. Clarke walks beside him, glancing back at Sinclair once. He only shakes his head, a silent warning, before he turns on his heel and walks away from them.

"That's good," Clarke sighs. "Evacuation?"

Blake tenses slightly. "It's slower than we would've liked, but it's going." And this is the mind-boggling mystery of Bellamy Blake, how he can be such a brat and yet have a level of compassion for others in need that most people could never achieve. It's hard for her to even understand whether there's an ounce of kindness within him, and also hard to understand if he can truly ever hurt anyone.

Right now, however, those thoughts are driven out of her head when he turns his head to her with a lazy smirk. "What's wrong, Princess? Is it your bedtime?"

It's gotten easier to ignore his thinly-veiled insults since her youth, since he first joined the Royal Guard in her days as a princess of Arkadia. A title she hated, a title that fed the flame of her desperation to escape royalty and go somewhere far, far away—

"Yes," she says tonelessly, deciding to humor him. "Why else do you think I always look better than you do?"

Bellamy chuckles softly and runs his hand slowly through his mass of dark curls before smiling down at her. Clarke's obviously not blind—she knows that Bellamy's extremely attractive, but it really only makes her dislike him more in the moment.

She had been sixteen when he had become one of her mother's guards at his own age of seventeen. The carefully crafted taunts, the hatred he never failed to show for her, had been strongest then. Sometimes Clarke would think that it would fade as they grew older—that maybe, they might even be friends. But they never really saw each other all that much, and when they did he put every ounce of his being into trying to mentally hurt her as much as he could. If there's someone who knows true resentment, that would be Bellamy Blake.

But now he's going to have to be one of her most trusted companions, a thought that makes her feel a little like she's going to throw up. 

Despite Sinclair's praises of this man, Clarke supposes that now that she's the queen, she has to be more careful, more shrewd. And of course, almost every single night, it leads her to the countless possibilities of how he, or anyone else, really, could turn against her, make this war much worse than she could've imagined. 

"—larke. Jesus, I've said your name like three times."

"I'm thinking," she says sharply.

"Remember when we met, Princess?" he says, as if he'd just read her mind. "When you were still a little Princess?"

"That's hardly important now," she says sharply. 

Bellamy grabs her arm, making her stop. He glances up at ceiling, at the cameras lining the walls. 

"There's a possibility that we're being watched," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. He lets go of her then, crossing his arms. "It's important that we really get to know each other, now that I'm control of your military force."

"The only person who truly controls that in the end is me," Clarke hisses. "And we do know each other."

"We knew of each other's existence for three years," he says. "But not each other."

"You hated me," Clarke mutters.

"What makes you think I don't anymore?" he says, grinning, but his eyes are malicious. "You're hopelessly unprepared because you grew up in a life of comfort and knowledge and you were _ungrateful._ So I'd almost be pleased that this is happening to you, but we've got a war to win and I know you don't have the guts to execute a plan for that."

For one blissful moment, all of the thought is driven from Clarke's mind as her fist rises up and collides with his face. He stumbles back, a thin stream of blood on his cheekbone from where her ring cut it open. She expects Bellamy to get angry, or to retaliate—instead, he's just expressionless for a minute, before he nods a little to himself, wiping the blood away with the tip of his index finger.

"You know how to fight," he says.

"Why wouldn't I?" she asks sharply.

Bellamy shakes his head in disbelief, glancing down at the faint stain on his finger. 

"See what happens the next time you call me incompetent," Clarke murmurs, hitting his shoulder with her own as she walks away.

* * *

**now**

* * *

Her head is spinning.

The dream of her punching Bellamy in the face doesn't fade, because it is a memory. A vague, insignificant memory, but it replays over and over in her head, yet slightly blurred.

Slowly, carefully, she opens her eyes.

There's blood dripping from a gash on her head, an injury that is decidedly _not_ a bullet wound. But she does feel like she's been shot in the head. 

It takes an incredible effort to keep her eyes open, and Clarke takes a minute to just stare at the dark red pool of blood next to her face.

 _Bellamy._ _I need Bellamy._

"Check this room," a gruff voice says from outside the door, and Clarke goes stock still, shutting her eyes.

"There's one body in here," another voice says. "No one else."

"Wait," the first one says. "Is that the queen?"

Her heart starts to beat loud and fast, and it's honestly a surprise that they can't hear it. After a few seconds, her crown is yanked unceremoniously from her head.

"Was that necessary?"

"The king will be pleased."

"He wants her head, not her crown."

"Same thing, isn't it?" Clarke hears a knife being pulled out of a sheath. "But I could get her head."

"He'll come back and get it herself," the first voice snaps. "Let's go."

"What about the others?" the second one says. 

"Octavia and Echo are readying them for the execution as we speak. Let's _go."_

Their footsteps start to fade away, and when they're completely gone, Clarke raises herself up on her elbows.

_What now? What now?_

The 'others' have to be Raven, Murphy, and Bellamy—and the 'others' are about to be murdered.

It had to be an inside job, Clarke thinks. But she'll have to worry about that later.

With possibly the greatest effort of her life, she stands up, swaying a little as she withdraws a gun from a compartment in the wall. The declarations and initial attacks were months ago, sure, but she's only got one thought as she loads the gun.

_The war starts now._


End file.
